I sit alone at the café, sketchbook in hand, awaiting a friend. A radiant angel emerges on the page – beaming smile, outstretched wings, exuding joy.
You arrive, glance at the sketchbook and ask, "Drawing yourself as an angel?"
I shake my head. "It's not me..."
You sit, eyes locked on mine. "Then who is she?"
Grief surges, and tears begin to fall. The pencil slips from my fingers as I struggle to contain the pain. "She... was my daughter," I whisper, the words barely audible.
Comments
0No comments yet.